To Immortality
by Youko-Kokuryuuha
Summary: He is nine when he commits his first murder, and very, very afraid. Voldemort, his delusions, dark obsession, and a temptress with whom he isn't in love.


Disclaimer: Harry Potter. Not mine.

A/N: Spontaneous oneshots galore. Srsly. I fell asleep while listening to my ipod on the bus, and then I just jolted awake in my seat—with this fic in my head. At six in the morning. Why, yes, my muse is certainly odd. And this a bit more twisted than what I would usually write, but that's what you're getting.

But enough of the trivial chatter. Read the fic and enjoy.

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_To Immortality_

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He is nine when he commits his first murder, and very, very afraid.

The servent girl, Tilly, always told the orphans that they should never hurt innocent things—ants and roaches and birdies and all sorts of little creatures. That all life was precious and significant and should be treasured.

And Mrs. Cole chimed in that they'd all burn in purgatory for endless day if they ever thought about killing; that their souls would be skewered and tortured for all eternity; that they'd be left to rot. She also warned about the spirits, about how unnatural deaths stirred vindictive apparitions and demons and specters who would be hungry and crazed and thirsty for revenge.

But when he looks back down at the lifeless white rabbit's corpse, there is no sign of retaliation, and he is alone in the waning twilight of the forest. There is no one nearby to tattle on him, and no spirits to maim him and his abomination of a gift. He will not be caught; he is home free.

He is nine when he realizes that it is easy to get away with murder.

o

When the funny man with the purple suit visits, Tom instantly doesn't trust him.

It's a little unreasonable, maybe, but he can't shake the feeling that the man is examining his every word and movement. So he is careful and guarded, because funny men with purple suits and auburn beards are not normal, and Tom is not normal, and Tom is a murderer who sees things and hears voices. But he doesn't tell the funny man this. He keeps his mouth shut and his emotions in check, just like the voice tells him to do.

"You are a wizard."

And he slips.

He doesn't believe it at first; Mrs. Cole has been whispering about his peculiar nature for weeks, and he's been expecting someone to 'help' him for quite a while. But seeing the magic sets his soul and mouth on fire, and he is eager to share his gifts and secrets with the funny man, because they are so alike. So he spills.

"I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to–"

"Careful," the voice whispers in his ear, and he stops talking at once.

The funny man in the purple suit cocks his head to one side curiously, his eyes darting around the room looking for the disturbance before landing back on Tom, and the little boy only shakes his head timidly.

"It's nothing," he whispers. The funny man nods and keeps talking, but Tom barely listens; his hands are shaking uncontrollably as he rocks back and forth on his bed.

He looks at the girl sitting beside him, her hand curled over his shoulder protectively. Her dress is white and frilly, and reaches to just past her knees; her feet are bare on the white bed sheets. Her hair is a curtain of black satin hair, spilling over her shoulders and trailing down her back to her waist. Her face is smooth and flawless, the skin pale and soft-looking. Her eyes are black, and strangely cold and empty, but he forgives her of this because she is his only friend. She notices his staring and squeezes his shoulder reassuringly.

Maybe he _should_ tell the funny man that he's seeing things and hearing voices. But she's nice to him, and she understands him like none of the other orphans, or even the funny man who sets things on fire that's a wizard like him. She doesn't pressure him; she guides him and encourages him, and steers him always down the right path, the carefully calculated path. So he won't tell on her.

(And she's pretty.)

o

He is thirteen, and thinks the world is disgusting.

Those who are pathetic and beneath him travel the halls, chattering loudly and daring to speak to him; daring to call the name that he hates nearly as much as them. If it were up to him, they wouldn't be allowed in school at all. They'd all be wiped o–

But he smiles and laughs, because she tells him to.

"Later," she murmurs to him, "when you are a god. Then you'll be able to destroy them all. You'll leave the world rocking back and forth in agony, and your name on cold dying lips. Later, you'll rule them all."

(He remembers the rabbit, and thinks that humans are no different.)

"You're right," he tells her one day. "I _should_ become a god. I _should_ rule them all. But how?"

And she tickles his cheek with a kiss.

"I'll help you. I won't let you do it alone."

And she doesn't. She helps him manipulate his teachers, his housemates, his enemies... everyone. Everyone is his and hers and theirs.

(He likes the thought of 'theirs.')

But there are better moments, moments where they steal away from the others, from the minions and all the rest, and it is only them.

They stand in the corridors at night, letting the moonlight wash over them, as she touches him. Her fingers trail lightly over his skin, setting his nerves on end; her hands weave into his, threading the two together; her lips, red and full, whisper not Tom, but Voldemort. And he shudders.

"Who are you?" he asks one night, and he stares into her eyes. They are still black, still empty and cold, but they shine with something—a burning dark passion.

"Immortality," she breathes, and her lips brush against his again.

(And she's beautiful.)

o

The spotted mirror is cracked and flecked with his blood.

There's a dull ache in his hand where the red sticky liquid runs down his palm and drips onto the floor, but he doesn't really notice. He's reeling at the stench of death and carnage, and the thought makes him retch again into the sink.

She's sitting on the sink next to him, her pale beautiful legs swinging back and forth over the edge as she watches him.

"It's necessary, you know. In the end."

And he nods numbly, careful not to turn around and see the body. Really, he doesn't know why he's being such a coward; _he_ didn't kill her, the basilisk did. And she's only a mudblood, just a muggle-born girl.

But he still doesn't want to see her corpse.

He knows what he'll see anyway: broken limbs, sprawled awkwardly on the floor; white skin, cold and icy to the touch; and glassy eyes, blank and empty and dead dead dead–

He vomits into the sink again.

"I don't want to be like the rabbit," he heaves, and she nods understandingly. Her movements are silent and fluid as she glides from the sink and flutters to his side. Her hands take his face in them, and her kiss is soothing against his forehead.

"Don't worry. You have me."

He wonders at her perfect face as she traces a long white finger down his cheek. She is stunning, gorgeous and more lovely than anything else in this world. His chest pangs at the sight of her, and he nearly swoons from the feeling. It's an emotion more powerful than anything he's every felt before. All-consuming, soul-crushing, mind-numbing, forever-burning.

(...Love?)

No. He's a murderer. His heart is too broken and mangled and torn for that. Obsession, he decides, and he is content.

o

"I need you."

She is sitting atop the windowsill in the Slytherin common room, and the refracted light from the lake filters through the glass and glimmers on her skin. Her head turns to him gracefully, and she smiles. It is cold and empty and disturbing and cruel and twisted and wrong and all the things he adores.

"I know," she says, and nothing more.

He leaps from the green leather armchair and leers at her intently. "No, you don't understand," he croaks; his voice is broken and pathetic. "I _need_ you. I can't live without you. I lo–" He stumbles on the word. "I want you."

She rises from her perch and prowls towards him. "Are you sure?" she taunts, and she looks into his eyes; they are desperate and frantic and crazed and begging. There is no hesitation in the smooth features of his face, and he has never been more sure of anything else before. The diary is already in his hand. She smiles again and takes his hand in hers.

"To love," she whispers, and she offers him the soft flesh of her neck. His dark eyes glint with lust and luster.

"To immortality," he agrees, and he slits the skin of her throat and drinks her blood.

(He doesn't know it then, but it is this that will damn him for all eternity.)

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A/N: Purely symbolic representation, for the record. Not sure of what. A temptress, maybe? Eh, whatever. Review, plz.


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